


hold your grandmother's bible to your breast

by FallacyFallacy



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Gay Male Character, Gen, Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/pseuds/FallacyFallacy
Summary: Francis Kinloch says goodbye, and everything goes from bad to worse.





	hold your grandmother's bible to your breast

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from [How it Ends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfgogTcUQoA) by DeVotchKa.  
> A couple of warnings: this fic does include a whole bunch of bad consent involving a gay man having sex with a woman (non-explicitly described). There's also some subtle suicidal ideation. Be aware.  
> Also: I am not a historian. I am not a history student. I'm not even a person who's read very many books about any of this. (Or... even one complete book. I'm sorry!) I'm just a person who enjoys writing and reads a lot of history blogs and John Laurens/Alexander Hamilton/Lams RPF. So, take anything described in this fic with a _lot_ of salt; I'm honestly only trying to consolidate the second-hand work of a bunch of people far more knowledgeable than me!

“You're coming along to the party.”

John looked up. Standing above him, Martha looked uncharacteristically stern, long fair hair brushed back over her shoulder.

When she saw she had his attention, her expression softened.

“It's this weekend, at Baker's. Nothing overly formal – just a group of friends to drink and talk.” She added, “which you clearly need, right now.”

John looks down again.

He couldn't rue Martha's pushiness, _per se_. If she hadn't been so forward with him, they'd never have become friends at all, and John would still be as friendless and solitary as he had been during his first months in this city.

Right now, however, friendless and solitary sounded like exactly where he wanted to be.

Martha sighed and sat next to him on the grass, folding her hands primly over her skirt. “At least consider it, dear Laurens. I've barely seen you in weeks, and when I have all you've done is mope.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, almost on reflex. “It's just, lately I've been... preoccupied.” What else could he say?

“Perhaps... being around other friends would be the antidote?” She suggested, timidly. “The others – they all agree with me, you're such a charming and interesting fellow; nobody can understand why you're holding back so. They could come to love you as I have, if only-”

“All right,” he said finally. “I'll – try. You're probably right. I should be out more.” He breathed in, thought about it, and tried to convince himself.

Martha clapped her hands together and smiled that bright smile that suited her best, patting his hand for a moment before she stood up. “Then I'll inform them. As long as you come, I'll be happy. If nothing else,” she added with an almost cuttingly knowing smile, “nobody will stop you from disappearing into some back room if you absolutely cannot contain your need to mope.”

He smiled weakly.

“It'll be fine,” she said, the words sadly familiar by now. “You'll – it'll be _fine_.”

He nodded, and tried to imagine it.

*

It would be easy to say that his time in Switzerland now felt like a dream – an experience separated from his current self by forces even stronger than geography or chronology. And it would be the truth, as the moment he had stepped into a house of his family's once more he had felt pulled and set into place to an extent he hadn't realised he had lost during his travels. At the time, he had hesitated before committing those acts; now, he can barely imagine it, barely remember why he had let himself stray when he had been so sure beforehand that he was a man of control, of honour.

But, to speak that way would be to rebut reality, and himself. It had not been a dream. Perhaps if he had truly left behind that desire back then, he could think that way. But he had not.

He'd truly _believed_ in it, too, somehow.

They'd continued to exchange letters, after all. They were perhaps not as affectionate as he had secretly hoped – and certainly not as affectionate as they had been to one another at other times – but he had thought he recognised the words neither written nor spoken. They were the same, after all – they were in this _together_ , as equals, if not good men. And he had understood: of course, they could not say what they truly felt. If they had, John would undoubtedly have been too terrified to even accept the correspondence, for fear that it would be intercepted. If their words had been mild, it had been for good reason.

And then there had been the matter of politics. John had chafed at the friction, too prone to questioning himself in the face of other opinions when held by those he loved and yet too uncomfortably aware that no disagreement, no matter the severity and cruelty of the issue concerned, had stepped between himself and his father. He would admit now that he'd bought into that damnable lie that has plagued men for centuries – that if he could talk to him a little more, express his thoughts a little better, that he _must_ see, _must_ be brought over to his point of view – but he had also thought, honestly, that this disagreement was merely a minor nuisance in the face of an otherwise stalwart friendship.

So when he heard about the girl...

It had only been a rumour. So much distance separated them now that John would not be surprised in the slightest if the news he had heard eventuated to be a gross exaggeration of the truth. Stupidly, he'd brushed it off at the time – they _knew_ one another, after all, even if none of these other people did.

And then he'd received the letter.

He couldn't explain the transformation it had had on him. He couldn't even state, precisely, what made him so sure that his Kinloch had moved on – it had begun as tenderly as ever, and the offending statement could have any number of friendly interpretations. And yet somehow, it had pierced his heart so suddenly and so shockingly he had been fairly incapable of managing his reaction. He had seen it, in his head – Francis facing some young woman, touching her cheek delicately, all thoughts of John fading like that last wisps of smoke from his mind – and he had become filled to the seams, to uncomfortable bursting, with something black and twisting and terrible.

And there was no doubt about it at all, now. It was over. Laurens's letter had, without a doubt, ensured that.

He was upset about a friend who had betrayed him, he had told Martha. But he felt guilty whenever she looked at him with those eyes of pity. He didn't deserve it. He had ruined himself, and like the worst, most selfish sinner in existence, he was distraught that he had not ruined his friend as well.

*

Laurens sipped his drink, and then gulped it down. Having finished another glass, he with barely a thought reached for one more, before turning back to the room in front of him.

Well, he was here.

The room was loud – there were more people than he had expected, all talking and laughing gaily, discussing recent novels he hadn't read or absent friends he'd never heard of. There was no talk of politics, which he ought to have been grateful for, but perversely all he wanted right now was something to _talk about_ , and politics he _knew._

It reminded him of Francis, but then so did everything right now, and at least those particular memories of him inflamed him with indignant passion more than morose grief.

He'd dressed up for the occasion, thinking that it'd be nice to show off one of his best coats, that he might feel more at ease or at least more inclined to socialise, but it seemed he had overdressed, and now he simply felt stuffy and uncomfortable; London might be far from Charles Town when it came to climate, but this manner of dress was clearly not designed for even May heat. Not to mention that if he continued sampling his wine at this same rate, it was only a matter of time before he made some clumsy movement and ruined his fine clothes.

He should be among the other party-goers, not huddling away in this corner. But he couldn't concentrate on any of the many conversations spiralling around him long enough to join in, and all the spirits which might have relaxed him had only dampened his senses even further than they had been of late. He looked for Martha occasionally – he didn't feel up for much, but she had such a bright way of talking at length, with just a touch of an accent she still hadn't lost, that he found strangely soothing even when he wasn't particularly listening to what she was saying (which, given her penchant for gossip, was quite often) – but after greeting him at the door she had been suddenly seized by some other young lady desperate to speak to her and hadn't appeared again since.

He felt out of place in this room, and his melancholia magnified the feeling to a country-wide malaise. Increasingly, he wondered why he was even here at all. What was he achieving by remaining here in England? Every report he heard of the conflict between Great Britain and his homeland described a situation direr and direr. If he could make his way over, he was sure he could make a difference there – the more he thought about it, the more he truly yearned to leave, a hunger for battle and glory he had nurtured since he was a child.

He downed his latest drink, feeling the hazy finality of a decision made. He couldn't set off quite yet, as much as he had a sudden pointless urge to fly off home and pack his bags this evening. But he could get away from the noise and revelry of this place, at least, and leave these other men and women to enjoy themselves without his gloomy mood dampening the atmosphere.

He made his way upstairs, stumbling now and then, and found himself in what looked like another sitting room. Suddenly feeling more heavy than he had a moment ago, he dropped onto a lounge, hunching over his knees.

He couldn't stop thinking about him, even now. And not for the reasons he should have been doing so; however often he tried to reframe the twisting inside him as feelings of pious guilt that were the natural results of his previous actions, here and there a flicker of memory or thought would always give him away.

He missed him. Horribly. _Brutally._

It was like a churning of his stomach – aggravated almost beyond resilience by the excess of drink of this evening.

He'd thought – For just a short while, he'd thought he'd finally -

He heard a sound; several moments later, his mind registered the sound and compared it with memory.

He looked up. There was Martha, closing the door behind her with the same _snick_ it had just made.

He stumbled to his feet, beginning to mumble some excuse or promise, but she interrupted.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

She was biting her lip, looking away from him. He was confused.

Finally, she sighed. “I thought I might've finally come up with some way to lift your mood, but I suppose not.”

“Martha-” He should be speaking-

“It's been two weeks now. I can't-” She twisted her hands in front of her. Finally, John noticed the telltale redness of her cheeks – she was drunk, too. It wasn't like her.

She looked up at him, straight into his eyes. “I've realised something these last two weeks. I cannot bare to see you unhappy.”

Dimly, he could hear the sounds of the party continuing beneath them. Friends reuniting and uniting as one, joined by the same thrill of thought and feeling. He'd never felt more like an outsider.

Martha stepped forward. “I've been simply beside myself these last few days. Every time I see your sad eyes, I feel as though my heart is being ripped in two. Sometimes I even – feel jealous, stupidly, of this friend of yours, that he can have so great an effect on you, while I-”

She reached for his arm, but then pulled back. Instead, she balled her hands into tight fists.

“I've realised that I love you,” she said, softly.

John's mind was blank for several long moments.

_Oh_ , he thought.

“I love you... and because of that, I cannot bear to see you unhappy.” She was taking his hand, moving closer; he could smell her perfume.

She tilted her head up, breathed out.

“Please,” she murmured. “Let me... be a comfort to you, in some small way. Just for tonight.”

Her face was so close.

He remembered him, so vividly. The way he'd laughed when John had teased him, the way his hair had fallen into his eyes, but then also -

Fingertips at his cheek, spreading over his jaw, holding him in place - 

Martha _loves_ him, he remembered; in this state, every moment felt new, every touch a revelation.

Warm breath at his neck, and a figure before him, opening up to him-

He _wanted_ this, so badly – to feel loved, to not feel alone, to feel joined with someone -

He didn't feel _real_ -

He surged forward, holding her shoulders as he kissed her fiercely. She stumbled backwards, grunted, but then wrapped her arms around him tightly, binding him against her.

His mind felt like it was buzzing, so he ignored it, kissing her neck as his hands moved down her back, searching for the clasp of her dress.

“Yes,” she said giddily, and she was so happy, and all he wanted was to hear that word again and again.

She pushed him back lightly towards the lounge, hands at his coat and then-

He doesn't remember.

*

The servant stepped forward into the room, footsteps echoing.

“Master John.”

John jumped, instantly expecting the worst.

“Yes?”

“Miss Manning is here, requesting to see you.”

Immediately, John pressed a hand to his arm, rubbed unconsciously at the skin there. Across the room, his sister had paused in her harpsichord playing to allow them to speak – and to listen in.

He cleared his throat. “Inform her that I am out and will be unable to receive her today.”

The servant, blessedly, bowed without hesitation. “Of course, sir.”

John turned back to his book, shifting awkwardly in his seat and ducking his head, as though such a minor movement might miraculously hide his image from the only other person in the room.

“Martha Manning?”

Of course his sister wouldn't let this one go.

In the days since he had awoken with a crick neck in an unfamiliar room, half-undressed and with the lady passed out against him, more skin on display than he should have ever seen, he had scarcely left his bedroom, struggling against the tides of a melancholia he had not felt in years. It seemed an impossible burden to deal with: on top of his worry and grief over the loss of his friend, his shame over the nature of their relationship, and his own embarrassment at his own ridiculous overreaction, now he was left struggling against an impossible cacophony of emotions he couldn't begin to sort through.

Why had he done it? He still couldn't understand himself. He had felt achingly lonely over Kinloch's separation, had felt so joyous over the possibility that he might be able to please another, had wanted some brief respite from his agony and ill feeling-

At which point, every time, he would stop and hate himself again, because why did he need a reason at all? What other reason could there be, when a beautiful young lady made such an advance towards a healthy young man? That should be the end of it.

He wished he could remember. It had felt good in that moment, to kiss her, but was that merely relief at finding an outlet for the frustration that had been winding its way around him for weeks? What about the act itself? Had it even be completed? Had he-

And then he would run a hand through his hair as though he could tear it out. He refused to think about that. It had happened, hadn't it? Wasn't this proof, in the end, that the darkest worries that had besieged him since he was an adolescent were false after all?

But then, he would imagine his father's face, and how he would accept the truth that his perfect son had become a rake. Whenever one worry left him, without exception, it was only a matter of moments before another appeared to take its place. And how could he justify this? Defend a fall to a temptation he was not even sure he desired?

And then there was the other matter. Whenever he was reminded of the event, a terrible shiver would rush over his skin, and he would want nothing more than to block the images and sensations assaulting him. He felt... impossibly uneasy, and before long would feel some swirling illness in his stomach, as though he were reliving the drunkenness of that night. But he wasn't drunk – in fact had barely touched any drink since he had awoken that morning. And from time to time, even the sensation in his skin felt like phantom hands, running over him...

So he hid in his room, and moped, more than ever. He wished that he had never gone to the party, and then that Francis had never had reason to lose whatever affection he had once had for him, and then that he could somehow wrench within himself and rearrange it, remake himself into someone better.

If someone had appeared that day to transport him to his country and to the war, he would have done it without a second thought.

He scratched at his arm again. “Yes.”

Martha smirked, returning her hands from the keys before her. “I thought the two of you were quite the lovebirds.”

“No,” he said.

“Well, clearly not any more.”

She stood up and, taunting his averted eyes, walked towards him.

“Care to explain why we're lying to this poor girl?”

He sighed loudly and stared down at his book. Maybe if he sounded exasperated enough she'd get the hint and give up.

“Not particularly.”

“Well, it's a bit late to say that now. You've made me an accomplice, if I don't chase after her to correct her. I deserve to know what I'm concealing.”

He glared at her, annoyed. “It doesn't concern you.”

But she could read him too well, and was already gazing at him intently. “Are you fighting?”

“No.”

“You confessed your love to her, and she rejected you?”

“No.”

“No, of course not – she confessed to you, and you rejected _her_ , and now she's bothering you trying to change your mind-”

“Martha-”

Her eyes narrowed. “You slept with her.”

His heart thudded at the accusation, and his face must have shown his strain, because Martha's eyes immediately widened.

“My, I hope I wasn't right about that confession as well-”

He rubbed at his cheek with his hand. He was feeling that way again – uncomfortable in his skin, in his flesh. Words assaulted him, but they were all either false or ruinous, and he couldn't put them into order right. He didn't even know _what_ he could say to Patty, let alone _how_.

“Is that what happened? You slept with her and now you're avoiding her.”

He bristled – he was not running away, that he could say for sure. “I am not, I'm simply...” 

...couldn't he?

Martha was staring down at him coolly. John felt the shame rise in him again, almost overpowering.

“I...” He clutched at his hands, wringing them tightly. “...she invited me to a party. I became very drunk. She also drank, it seems. And... we did something we should not have.”

She was silent.

“I should not have done it. It was wrong of me – deplorable behaviour. I admit that fully.”

“...but you're still avoiding her.”

“It's not-” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm not running away. If it became necessary, obviously I would take responsibility properly. But – I just -” He shook his head. How could he possibly explain the feelings inside him, when he barely understood them himself?

“I... can't face her, right now. Not yet.”

He waited for her rebuke, cursing his unmanly cowardice. He deserved it. But when he finally raised his eyes, Martha was staring up at the wall, pensively. “...no. You shouldn't have done that,” she eventually said. But then she sighed. “But, I feel like there's a bigger problem, here. What about Martha? What about her feelings?”

She almost glared at him, for a moment.

“You've said you don't intend to abandon her. I believe you – I know you aren't that type of man. But does she know that? How could she believe it, after you've rebuffed her for so long like this?”

He felt a lump in his throat.

“I- If she approached me-”

“But why would she try, after all this?”

He couldn't respond.

“You keep doing these things, Jack. You make a mistake, but then, the most important thing in your mind becomes how you feel, and what this means for you, and whether it makes you a bad person. So you do everything you can to fix _that_ problem, instead of the real one, and half the time nothing ever gets fixed. It doesn't make you a bad person, but it's a _problem_. Because right now, what negative consequences are you forced to face? Meanwhile, this poor girl whom you've pushed into giving herself up, is left terrified and alone.

“She's not the one you should be punishing. She's not the one you're angry at, Jack. _You_ are.”

*

He found her miles away, returning home.

“Laurens!” She exclaimed in surprise as he panted heavily. “I was just at your house, but since you've been out...”

“I wasn't,” he gasped out between breaths. “I was – avoiding you.”

She stared at him in shock.

“But, I won't any more.” He sighed, stood up straight.

“I'm sorry, but I can't return your feelings.”

If it were possible for Martha's eyes to grow any wider, they did at that.

“But that doesn't mean I intend to abandon you. Whatever the results are, concerning – the other night. I'll do the honourable thing, if it becomes necessary. I shan't leave you.”

Slowly, Martha nodded. “All... all right.”

“And – I have enjoyed our friendship, dearly. I would like it to continue, if at all possible.”

Martha was still gaping somewhat. She closed her mouth. Her brow furrowed, as though in concern, her eyes oddly dull.

But after several long moments, she nodded again. “All right.”

“Understood?”

“Yes. All right.”

*

John clenched and unclenched his fists, and looked again up at the door in front of him. He'd only knocked a moment ago, he was hardly being made to wait, and yet -

The door shifted back, revealing the face of a servant, and John barely waited to be welcomed in before he blurted out his purpose.

“Miss Manning – Martha – asked to see me here.”

The servant nodded obligingly, and led the way inside.

It took more self-control than John was willing to admit not to quicken his pace immediately. But, to do what? Hear the truth sooner? Certainly not to run away, as he'd promise he would not do...

He was ushered into a room where Martha was sitting at a table. For a moment he looked at her with relief. For months, they had barely talked at all, worries too obvious in one another's eyes whenever they exchanged glances, so when she finally called him here he'd thought-

And then she stood.

She bit her lip, eyes wide like he'd never seen them before.

“I'm beginning to show,” she said quietly.

He stared.

“No – surely you could-” It was only a slight bump, barely visible – if she only wore different clothing, or travelled away for some time, they could have another few weeks, at least-

“If it hasn't happened by now, I don't think it's going to.”

It was incredible – he'd known, of course, the whole way here, that this would likely be her reason for calling – could only be the reason for calling, now that she was entering her fifth month – and yet his mind resisted her words, desperate to find some flaw in her reasoning.

“But there must be-”

“There isn't,” she said in a hiss, and then bit her lip again, sharply. She breathed for several long moments, eyes flickering away from him. Eventually, she spoke again, most steadily, “there isn't anything left to do at this point. It's going to happen.”

He wanted to throw up. The feeling returned – he wanted to run, more than anything. He was shaking – maybe with the effort of keeping himself in place, maybe because of nerves, maybe both.

After what felt like a long, long time, he spoke. “All right,” he said, voice sounding croaky to his ears. “All... right. I... I suppose we'll be married soon, then. Very quickly – or your father might insist on me staying here, in this country, and...”

Martha sniffed. Her eyes were crumpling in on themselves, and she was trembling something fierce.

It pained him. “Are-”

“Is that all?” she asked, voice squeaky with tears.

“...what?”

She sniffed again, and rubbed at one of her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked so young and so fragile that he stepped forward to calm her somehow but she backed away from him, looking up at him in desperation.

“I can't believe it... I'm getting married, to the man I love, and yet I'm not happy, not at all...”

She cried in earnest, her pretty face streaked with tears, hands scrabbling at her cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” he said, with as much feeling as he could bear.

Abruptly she glared up at him, and demanded, voice high, “Why did you even agree to – to do that with me in the first place?!”

John gaped. Feeling panicked, he attempted, “I - ...I was distraught, not to mention heavily – _heavily_ drunk-”

“And then afterwards, you told me that you didn't really love me...”

He couldn't believe this - “I never said any such thing in the first place, you merely _assumed_ -”

“Because you went along with it perfectly easily-”

“You were offering comfort, I didn't presume to think your offer was conditional-”

“Wasn't that obvious?!” Martha said, but then suddenly stopped, putting a hand over her mouth. “No... no, we shouldn't be saying these things...”

Blood thudding in his ears, John was more than willing to continue the argument, to defend himself somehow even as the pit in his stomach grew more and more heavy, until Martha's hand moved away... and down to the bump growing at her stomach.

She didn't speak, but the meaning was plain.

John almost reeled back. What were they doing, speaking this way about – about their child?

Because that's what it was. No longer could John think about this event as merely a regrettable evening, or the consequence of too much wine, or the result of any of the innumerable flaws that had lead him to this moment.

Now, it was a matter of his _child._

For many long minutes, neither spoke. He could absently hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room, and the movement of servants in other rooms of the house. But his mind was entirely elsewhere.

He thought of the many younger brothers and sisters he had met and taken care of, had himself raised as best he could after their beloved mother had passed away; many of his siblings had never known her at all. He thought of the younger siblings he _hadn't_ met, not really, because they had passed away almost as soon as they arrived, taken by one of the uncountable number of cause-less infant illnesses that had spread like a plague over his family. He thought of Jemmy, whom he had loved so dearly and wished so much for. He thought of how even this ragged bunch of survivors had not seemed destined that way – how even Patty had seemed cast to the reaper's realm when she had been not two.

His child.

Finally, John approached his soon to be bride. She watched his movements but didn't move away. Carefully, he reached for her hand; she allowed him it.

He raised it to his lips and kissed it softly.

“Martha,” he said. “I wish to marry you.”

Her eyes were still red, and she visibly swallowed at his words. But then, as she had before, she nodded.

*

Martha had curled beside him, hair loose and tangled down her back, skin impossibly pale. He placed a hand on her shoulder, not really sure what else to do; he hadn't remembered this part, last time.

“My husband,” she said. He couldn't read her tone, but her expression showed no signs of distress. It was enough.

He wasn't... sure what to think.

He could barely remember how it had happened last time; if he concentrated, he could conjure up images and fleeting traces of feeling, but he had no way of knowing whether there had ever been any truth to them, or whether they were merely a product of his mind's fervent attempts to retrace and redo the night's events. The memories were often unpleasant, but in a shielded, hazy way, dreamlike and insubstantial.

Last night had not been that. It had not been, as he had always believed would be the case when a husband and wife joined as one, _transporting_ – at every moment of this evening he had been John and she had been Martha and their bodies had been their own. He had taken every moment consciously, had thought through every action. It had been, unexpectedly, incredibly mundane.

Somehow, it reminded him of how it had been with Francis. He'd never forgotten, then, even for a moment, what they were doing together. Francis had said he had, though. He wondered if he'd lied.

He wasn't sure how she had enjoyed it – as little as she had. It had taken far too long, but she had kissed him and urged him onwards, and somehow, he had pulled through. At one point, she had leaned back, tired and messy, and had muttered dryly: “I'm really not sure what I'm doing, either...” 

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it would get better.

And if it didn't – well. He wouldn't have this duty for much longer, would he?

“You still intend to leave.”

Tiredly, John cracked his eyes open. Martha was tracing a shape on the pillow between them, not looking at him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Will you wait to see the birth of your first, at least?”

He sighed. “I have put off my participation in this war long enough. My country needs me – has been calling me for some time. I will make arrangements as soon as I can.”

She was silent.

“...of course, I will send for you and the child when I arrive. And until then, my family will assuredly protect you to the best of their ability.”

“Though they still don't know about this.”

“...they will, soon.”

Her lids were lowered, though to what extent that was merely a matching tiredness he could not say.

“Will you be careful?”

He nodded. “Of course. And I will do anything I can to preserve you and the child from where I am stationed.”

“No – will you be careful? When you fight?”

His eyes flew open entirely at that and he frowned. After a moment, she looked back up at him, but didn't seem to understand his bemusement.

“I could hardly consider myself a valuable defender of my country if I did,” he explained bluntly.

She pursed her lips, and almost seemed to glare at him for a moment. “What about us?”

He snorted. “As I said, I will do all I can, and my family-”

“You still don't love me.”

He stopped. Slowly, her glare softened, but she didn't lose her frown. Instead, she shifted forwards, kissed him lightly.

When she drew back, he looked as determined as he had ever seen her. “I will make you love me,” she declared.

She said no more, and there was no response he could give. They settled in to sleep, her delicate hand pressed lightly against his shoulder, and in the last minutes before unconsciousness overtake him, he wondered absently whether Francis had married his girl yet, too.

*

“You don't need to sit so far away, you know.”

John blinked away from his manual, startled at the sudden voice in the quiet room.

Martha sat at the other end of the couch, an abandoned knitting project lying in her lap. She raised her eyebrows.

It wasn't as though he'd tried to sit far away, it was just – no, it didn't matter. He dutifully shifted further along the seat, towards her. 

Once he was close enough for her satisfaction, she then flashed him an almost teasing smile and adjusted herself under his arm, guiding it around her shoulders. Carefully, he followed.

“We are _married_ , after all,” she reminded him.

“Mm.” He chuckled awkwardly.

They were at the Mannings' – at his in-laws', he should say. And although he always felt awkward any time he was left alone with Martha – with his wife – nowadays, he couldn't be anything but relieved that William and Elizabeth were out for the evening. No degree of good relationship between the Mannings and Laurenses could completely stifle some level of disapproval at his obvious role in creating this situation, even if he had ultimately done the honorable thing.

And it had been an awkward letter to his old friend from South Carolina, informing him like a bolt from the blue that he was now his brother in law.

Martha sighed, and John immediately began voicing apologies in his head – for failing abysmally in his nocturnal husbandly duties since their wedding night even as Martha herself had seemed reticent, for remaining cold and standoffish to her even now – but when she spoke, her voice was the opposite of accusatory. “I think – I understand a bit of it, now.”

He stared. “Er... understand what?”

“You still feel guilty, don't you? For that night. That's why you're still restraining yourself, even now...”

John couldn't respond. His chest felt tight.

Martha chuckled, almost bitterly. “And no wonder, after I almost attacked you about it, when you proposed to me...”

“No-” he burst out, “that was entirely justified – I was entirely in the wrong there – I should not have allowed myself to be so unmanned by emotion that I could not conduct myself appropriately-”

“But you did marry me, didn't you?” Her voice went small. “Not all men would have. I'm very grateful to you for that.”

“Because it was my responsibility to begin with – only a scoundrel would have run.”

“And what of mine?” She was still not looking at him, staring out at the rest of the room. “It happened, after all, at my urging... If anything, it was you who was taken advantage of by me, in that state.” She chuckled, awkwardly. “At any rate, I acted – terribly unladylike. Even if I did feel as I did for you, I should not have proposed such a thing.”

He wanted to deny it. Truthfully, many men and women would agree with her – that men were the unfair sex, prone to weakness, and that a man could not help himself from following along when a beautiful young woman such as herself made an advance. Women were not so easily tempted by flesh, and so were held to a higher standard.

And yet, the thought of thrusting all of his own responsibility onto her only made him terribly uneasy. It was still too difficult to sift through the many streams of thoughts and feelings that had so overpowered him that evening, and any attempt to do so for too long inevitably ended with him feeling that ill, discomforted sensation that had almost suffocated him the days after. But he knew his own heart, and he knew well that if there had been anyone that had preoccupied his senses that evening, it had not been her.

She must have sensed his discomfort, because she leaned more closely to him again affectionately, and took his hand lightly in her own.

“I know you want to be a good person,” she said, quietly. “But it's okay. You did do the right thing, in the end. And even if you did falter, then... well, so did I. You need not feel guilty. We are joined in this.”

After a moment's hesitation, she continued. “I don't want this – our marriage, our child – to be bloomed in guilt. I am here, and I love you. And I will continue to do so. You need not hide yourself away from me. I am your wife, and I will remain that as long as we are alive.”

John considered himself a Christian man. He might not be the type to dedicate his life to religion, poring over ancient texts in search of direction in every decision he made, but he had never found any difficulty letting the sermons spoken from the pulpit resonate inside him. And he had realised now that there was one lesson in particular that rang true for him again and again: that while sin could be found in many forms, the essential character inevitably remained the same.

The thrill of the gambler, waging on the futures of his wife and children; the high of the drunkard, oblivioning his own mind in place of facing the harshness of reality; and, of course, the momentary relief of illicit intercourse – all of it shared the same basic form. That of brief, explosive pleasure, in whatever form it came, which would without exception quickly fade away leaving its actor more destitute than it had been before. That was the true meaning of temptation: it promised at once very much, and in the end nothing at all.

He had not had any difficulty applying that same principle to his relations with Kinloch. Once he had finally wrested his moral reservations away and allowed himself to partake (or was that him rationalising his own actions again by pretending a hesitation that hadn't truly existed?), it had been supremely pleasurable, more so than anything he had ever experienced before – a gratification that he had never been able to match. Of course, the negative consequences of such actions were obvious.

But he had thought, then, that the rest of their interactions had been different. He had always imagined that to truly act on such depraved urges must necessitate a profound disrespect for the other party that could only constitute a selfish lack of regard for them. And yet Francis had been different. He had spoken to him softly, had stroked his hair to comfort him, had mingled his sympathies when he expressed his worries and had watched over him when he took ill. It had bewildered John horribly at the time, certain that his actions must have been a charade – and yet he himself had felt the same concern for him, even as he still desired him.

He had thought, over time, that their relationship had somehow been an exception. It had been something other than friendship, he was sure – he had not felt that way with any of his other friends, even among those he had felt unnatural attractions towards – but perhaps it had been close enough, according to whatever measure counted here.

But now, as he gazed down at Martha's patient smile, he realised that he had been wrong.

Their intimacy had not had the momentary timespan of other vices, it was true. But had it not had that same character of passion, of almost overwhelming sensibility, as he had let this amour – if that was what it truly was – take over him? And had it not also, as inevitably as the ticking of a clock, been all at once turned inside out and caused him the greatest of pain, just as had his guilt over their more obvious sins? Had he not grieved even more for Francis' sudden coldness, in fact, than his own moral degradation?

He understood, now - such relationships were, inevitably, destructive. They could never possibly bear fruit as could an honest relationship with a woman. All that lay at the end was pain and tragedy, just as surely as the gambler's despair.

And yet here, before him, was Martha.

She, who had seen so many of his flaws and mistakes already, and who sat here regardless, an unending font of forgiveness. She, who had plenty of reason to despise or disdain him, but who still chose to love him, in spite of his unforgivable coldness towards her. She would remain with him, he realised. No matter how long he lived, she would prevail the dutiful wife, waiting patiently to be returned even a sliver of what she had poured out to him.

...as long as he lived.

He swallowed.

He pulled her closer, gently, and kissed the top of her head. She giggled girlishly, leaning up as close to him as she could.

She deserved so much better than him.

“Thank you, my dear girl,” he said. She hummed happily in response.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic wouldn't even slightly exist if not for the incredible work of John-laurens on tumblr. But in particular, I have to credit them for their work analysing [the Laurens+Kinloch letters](http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/146659152658/a-documentation-of-john-laurenss-jealousy-and) and their theory about the relation between this and John's affair with Martha, which served as the primary inspiration for this fic!  
> I also wanna mention that my characterisation of Martha here was inspired by [this little ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165849/chapters/17358517) written by philly-osopher/ossapher!


End file.
